


Wednesdays

by primaveracerezos



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter Friendship, Draco does math to fall asleep, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry/OMC - Freeform, Kneazles, M/M, Pining, veterinarian!Draco, weekly dinner tradition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-24 20:57:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17711453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primaveracerezos/pseuds/primaveracerezos
Summary: Harry comes to Draco's flat every Wednesday for dinner.





	Wednesdays

It’s Wednesday, which means Harry is coming over for dinner. Draco is making spag bol because he knows Harry likes spag bol, and also because he can’t cook anything else properly. The pasta has just gone on when Draco hears the  _ fwump _ of the floo. Harry steps through the green flames and pulls his mobile out of his pocket, smiles at the screen, and starts to type.

“Spag bol okay?” Draco asks, only glancing up for a moment.

Harry puts his phone away. “My favorite,” he answers, kicking his shoes off and sprawling on the couch. 

“Want a glass of Sangiovese? I just found it in the cellar, wonderful vintage.” Draco pulls two glasses from the cabinet. Harry doesn’t reply, but Draco poors him a glass anyway. Harry never turns down a glass of wine, especially not one from the legendary Malfoy stores.

When Draco carries the two glasses over to the couch, Harry is back on his mobile, a little smile on his lips. Harry looks up and takes the glass. His eyes are crinkled at the outsides.

“Good day?” Draco asks. He sets his glass on the coffee table and goes back to strain the spaghetti.

“Mm? Oh, yeah, sort of. Need any help?” Despite the offer, Harry does not get up from the sofa. He does wave his hand at the television. Sounds of a home decorating programme drift into the kitchen.

Draco stirs the noodles into the simmering sauce, then twists some into two bowls. He’d considered making a salad, but forgot, and Harry doesn’t like salad, anyway. He flicks his wand at the bowls and they float off toward the coffee table, careful not to tip themselves sideways. Draco grabs two forks and follows them. 

Harry’s mouth is full when he says, “I hate this show.” A man and a woman are talking onscreen about the merits of modern versus rustic decor.

“No, you don’t,” Draco says, settling beside Harry. 

“Well, I kind of do. Do you know Callum McKnight?”

Draco, like a civilized person, waits until he has finished his bite before answering, “No. Why?”

Harry shrugs. “We’re going out this weekend. He works with Dean.”

“Oh, right,” Draco says, determinedly ignoring the twisting feeling in his chest. “What’s he like?”

“He seems nice. I’m not sure yet, really. Dean says he’s funny.”

“Good. You need to learn a sense of humour.” 

Harry smacks his arm for that. They finish their dinner and talk about the stupid couple on the television. Draco tells Harry about a box of baby kneazles someone brought to the clinic that morning, too young to be without their mother but all in good health. Harry groans about writing up the report from last weekend’s encounter with a den of half-vampire-half-werewolf fascism extremists. They finish the bottle of Sangiovese, which Harry cannot pronounce. 

Then Draco, yawning, says, “You can sleep on the couch or floo home, but I’m going to bed. You know I need at least ten hours of beauty sleep to maintain this level of--of gorgeosity.” He gets word-inventy after a few glasses of wine.

Harry smirks. “‘S not a word.” He lays on his side and rests his head on his arms. “I’ll just kip here for a little bit and then go home.”

Draco tosses a blanket at him. “Goodnight.” 

When Draco is in bed, soft sheets cradling him, he tells himself he is happy that Harry is going out with someone. He recites the Fibonacci sequence until 832,040 before he can fall asleep.

\- - - - -

It’s Wednesday again, a month later. Draco’s belly is full of takeaway kebabs, his mouth still tastes spicy, and he is comfortably propped on his sofa. Harry is finishing his chips and watching another decorating show, this time with two women who change other people’s homes.

Draco drains the rest of his beer and waves the bottle at Harry. “Want another one?”

Harry shakes his head. “Going out with Callum after this. He wants to take me to this bar in Soho, supposed to be very posh, members only and that.”

“Ooh, fancy. Is he a member?” Draco reminds himself that he likes Callum, that Callum is a decent bloke and is good to Harry. Friends are happy when their friends date decent blokes.

“Nah, he knows someone who is.” Harry looks at his watch. “Ah, damn, I should go. I need a shower.” 

“Good idea. Try to wear something nice, too. I’m sure Callum loves your slouchy look, but those toffs at the club won’t.” 

Harry snorts. “I know how to dress myself.”

Draco eyes the ten-year-old Weird Sisters t-shirt Harry is wearing and cocks an eyebrow. “That shirt is getting to be see-through. I think I can see your nipple.”

Harry puts a hand over the dark spot. “Bugger off. I like this shirt.” He slides his shoes on, then hesitates for a moment before asking, “What would you wear?”

Draco grins. “What would  _ I _ wear, or what do I think I can convince  _ you _ to wear? There’s a big difference.” He ignores Harry’s blatant eye-roll. “That cashmere sweater Ginny got you last Christmas, wear that and your black trousers. Do an ironing charm, please.”

“I’m not going to ask how you know what clothes I own,” Harry says.

“It’s my job as your friend to know what is in your wardrobe.” 

“It’s not, actually.” Harry throws a pinch of floo powder in the fireplace and looks over his shoulder. “Thanks, Draco.”

After Harry’s gone, Draco drinks three more beers, watches two more episodes of the decorating show, and eats the rest of Harry’s chips. He climbs into his bed, face tingly and hands clumsy. Draco does not wonder what Harry looks like in the cashmere sweater. He does not feel a sting when he thinks Callum will get to see how the dark green brings out Harry’s eyes. He does multiplication tables up to 17 and then sleep takes him.

\- - - - -

Two weeks later, Harry floos in but stops on the hearth. “What is that?”

Draco doesn’t bother to look where Harry is pointing. “That is Rita.”

Rita is atop her perch, laying belly-up, eyeing Harry suspiciously. She seems to decide he is trustworthy and hops down, purring as she circles Harry’s legs. 

“Rita?” Harry says. 

“Yes. I named her after your lovely biographer. You can pet her, she’s nice.”

Harry tentatively reaches a hand down and pats Rita between her pointed ears. She glares at him for a moment before going back to her tower. 

“I think I’ve upset her.” Harry sits next to Draco on the sofa, flopping down gracelessly as he always does.

“It would seem so. Let’s hope she doesn’t curse you.”

“Kneazles can curse?” Harry asks, looking warily at Rita, who is now asleep.

“A magiveterinarian never shares his secrets, Potter,” Draco drawls. 

Harry huffs a laugh. “That’s not a real thing, you tosser. What’s for dinner?”

Draco looks at Harry. “It’s your week.”

“No it’s not, last week I brought kebabs.”

“Last week I ordered Thai. Kebabs were two weeks ago.”

Harry considers, frowning. “Damn. I completely forgot. Give me a minute, I can go--”

Draco puts up a hand. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got food here, I’ll just--”

“Well, let me cook at least.” Harry stands and a minute later Draco hears him rummaging through the cupboard. He emerges from the kitchen holding a red box. “I’m not even questioning why you have boxed macaroni cheese. This okay?”

“You told me to shop at the muggle shops for variety. I got it as an experiment.”

“Right, an experiment. Well, I’m making it. Want to watch?”

Draco tries not to look too interested as Harry prepares the curious macaroni cheese, but can’t help a grimace at the bright-orange finished product. Harry doles the little noodles into bowls and Draco sniffs his. 

He takes a careful bite, chewing slowly. “It’s horrible.” He takes another bite. “I love it.”

“I think I learned how to make this when I was about five,” Harry says, pasta bits half-chewed in his mouth.

“What, on the hob? Isn’t that dangerous for a little kid?”

“Hmm, probably. But Dudley liked it, and it was easy compared to eggs and bacon. And I could almost always sneak a couple spoonfuls.”

Draco is quiet. He never knows what to say when Harry talks about his childhood. It makes him sick to think about a little Harry secreting away bites of macaroni before being locked in his cupboard. He never pokes fun at the way Harry eats everything like it’s his last meal, not since Harry told him about the Dursleys. 

They finish their dinner in the kitchen, leaning against the counters, and Draco washes up. Harry wanders to the sofa and Draco hears the telly turn on. He finds Harry tucked into one corner of the couch, Rita pooled in his lap. Harry is scratching behind her ears and Rita purrs loudly. Draco’s eyes catch on the lopsided smile Harry wears.

He squashes the tiny warmth in his stomach.

“Making up, are we?” he says. 

Harry grins at him. “I think she likes me.”

That night, Rita curls up next to Draco in his bed and he pets her absentmindedly. He wonders how many galleons it would cost to feed every hungry child in Britain. He’s adding up his Gringotts accounts when he falls asleep.

\- - - - -

Six weeks later, Draco is in the kitchen when Harry and Callum floo in together. He hears them come through and takes one very deep breath before he goes to greet them.

Callum is taller than Draco, which Draco hates. He tells himself that he is just used to being the tallest, except Neville. Callum hands Draco a bottle of wine, which Draco accepts with a smile. He does not read the label. It is a nice gesture, he reminds himself. 

Harry has his hands in his pockets and is looking around nervously. Draco ignores this and goes to fetch wine glasses. He uncorks the merlot Callum has brought and lets it breathe. It will pair well with the bolognese, Draco thinks. 

He made spag bol because he wants to eat something other than takeout the first time Callum joins their Wednesday dinners. Not because he knows it’s Harry’s favorite. 

Callum offers to help Draco, but Draco smiles and invites him to sit. “You’re a guest,” Draco says. Callum sits next to Harry on the sofa and they hold hands. Rita curls around Callum’s legs and Harry shows Callum where she likes to be scratched. Draco, still smiling, goes to the kitchen and takes two deep breaths. He plates the spaghetti and places it on a tray next to the salad he made and a loaf of crusty bread. 

They eat in the dining room, on the beautiful oak table Harry and Draco found at an antiques shop in Cork one weekend. Draco has cleared it of the research articles he normally reads there. Callum talks about his work at the architecture firm, how old and new magical technologies are made to work together. Draco finds they both took Ancient Runes at Hogwarts, though Callum is a few years younger than he and Harry. Callum was in Hufflepuff. 

Draco absolutely does not think,  _ Of course he was. _

“Tell him about that renovation you did on the Nott estate,” Harry says, and Callum’s eyes light up.

“That’s right, Theo Nott was in your year, wasn’t he?” Callum says. “Well, a fair bit of the Nott mansion was destroyed in the war, and I got to help restore it. That’s just what I was talking about, all that ancient magic built into the foundation, pairing with new spells to bring it into the twenty-first century…”

Callum keeps on and Draco asks the right questions to keep his story going. He notices that Harry is picking unconsciously at a hangnail on his thumb. 

He finishes his second glass of the cheap merlot and is relieved to find the bottle is empty. When Callum pauses for breath, Draco asks, “More wine? I’ll open another bottle if you like.”

“That would be lovely, thank you,” Callum says with a smile. 

Draco takes three deep breaths as he uncorks a very expensive bottle of cabernet sauvignon. 

Harry slips into the kitchen. “Hey,” he says. “I just wanted to say--thank you.”

Draco frowns. “I make spag bol all the time, you know it’s the only thing I can cook.”

“No, not for the spag. Just for being… Callum was nervous, he thought you didn’t like him.” Harry doesn’t look at him.

“Of course I like him,” Draco says. He doesn’t actually cross his fingers, but he considers it. “He’s a good bloke, and he makes you happy.”

Harry smiles. “Yeah. Still, thanks.” 

Draco pours Callum a generous glass of the cabernet and asks him if he uses runes in his work. His gut twists when Harry beams at him. He reminds himself that Harry is his mate, his best mate, and Harry is happy with Callum.

When they finally stand to leave, Draco starts clearing the dishes from the table. He watches out of the corner of his eye as they walk into the fireplace. He sees when Harry looks back, over his shoulder, at Draco. He does not know what the expression on Harry’s face means.

Draco does squares all the way up to 326 before he falls asleep.

\- - - - -

The next month, Draco is late to his own flat for Wednesday dinner. Harry is already there when he gets home, a pizza under a warming charm on the coffee table. The telly is showing a woman laboriously sanding an ugly wardrobe.

“Late night at the clinic?” Harry asks. Rita is asleep next to him.

“I actually left early, if you can believe it. I had a meeting at Gringotts.” Draco slides two pieces onto a plate and smirks when he sees half the pizza is already gone. 

“I was hungry, I started without you,” Harry says. “An interesting meeting or a boring one?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever had an interesting Gringotts meeting, but I brought this one on myself.” Draco summons a glass of water from the kitchen, too lazy to get up.

Harry keeps his eyes on the television, where the woman is now splattering the ugly wardrobe with various colors of paint. “Oh? Brought it on yourself how?”

“I started a new charity and put ten billion galleons in it.” 

That gets Harry’s attention. “Ten  _ billion _ ? What--?”

“They weren’t best pleased that I didn’t at least warn them beforehand. Something about not enough carts to move all the gold. I told them that’s not exactly my problem, is it, but they were still rather miffed.” 

“What’s the charity for?” Harry asks, eyebrows raised.

Draco swallows his bite of pizza. “Hungry kids.” He doesn’t look at Harry, who is silent. “That wardrobe is really ugly, why is she even bothering--”

Harry slides closer to Draco, close enough that their hips are touching, and presses their shoulders together for a moment. He takes another slice of pizza from the box. “I know, right. It’d be better to burn it and start over. Urgh, I hate this show.”

“You don’t,” Draco says, and drinks the rest of his water.

Harry stays later that night, later than he has in weeks. The show changes to one where the people shop for new houses; Draco and Harry take turns making fun of the ridiculous things the shoppers say. Rita sneaks a piece of pizza from the box and neither of them notice. They stay close on the sofa until Harry gets up to go home. 

Draco says, “See you next week.” He vanishes the empty pizza box as Harry takes a pinch of floo powder.

Harry does it again, the look over his shoulder. Draco still doesn’t understand what his eyes are saying, but he looks back this time. He hopes his eyes aren’t saying too much.

Rita sleeps on Draco’s pillow that night, and Draco bunches up a sheet under his head. He counts to five, over and over and over, until he is dreaming of warm shoulders and ugly wardrobes and green eyes.

\- - - - -

One week goes by and Draco stops at Tesco on his way home. He buys four boxes of macaroni cheese, a pack of chocolate biscuits, and a roasted quail. The quail is a treat for Rita. The rest is a treat for himself.

By the time Harry steps through the floo, Draco has managed to completely wreck one batch of the macaroni cheese and is starting on a second box. 

Harry walks into the kitchen as Draco is pouring the pasta into the empty pot. “You forgot the water.”

Draco frowns and glares at Harry. Harry sighs and carefully dumps the macaroni back into the box, then fills the pot with water and replaces it on the hob.

They eat the chocolate biscuits while the water boils. Draco tells Harry about a half-fish-half-crup--fish head, crup legs--that came into the clinic that morning with scale disease. Harry laughs and asks Draco to take a photo next time it comes. Harry finishes the macaroni cheese and they move to the sofa. 

They watch a couple search for a six-bedroom vacation cottage in Madagascar while they eat. 

Harry puts his bowl on the coffee table. He has a bit of macaroni stuck to his shirt. “Callum told me he loves me,” he says, as though commenting on the tropical climate on the television. 

Draco worries for a moment he will be sick. He nests his bowl on top of Harry’s. “Oh, wow. That’s great.”

The Madagascar couple compromise on a five-bedroom beachfront villa.

“I didn’t say it back.” Harry isn’t looking at him. He’s picking at his cuticle and watching the couple heard their children around the beach.

Draco feels like a trapdoor has opened under his stomach. “That’s alright. You don’t have to say it right away.”

Harry glances at Draco without turning his head. “I know. But I--” He bites his bottom lip. Draco tries not to notice. “I don’t.”

“You don’t?”

“I don’t think-- I mean, I know I don’t. I don’t love him.” Harry’s entire fingernail might come off at any moment, the way he’s worrying it. “I thought I might, in the beginning. He’s, you know. He’s really nice, and good to me. But...” Harry sighs. 

Draco gathers his courage. “But?”

“But I just don’t feel that way with him. Not a spark or a rush or any of that.”

Draco knows the flame he’s been carrying is trying to burst from him. He stays quiet so he doesn’t say anything stupid. 

Harry lets his head fall to the back of the couch. “Am I horrible?”

“No,” Draco says, and means it. “It’s not your fault if it’s not working out.”

“Do you think I should break up with him?” Harry rolls his head to look at Draco. 

Draco shrugs. “I can’t tell you what to do. Do you want to break up with him?”

“I don’t know. I like being with him, most of the time, but it’s just like we’re mates. Like how I feel about being around Ron, or Neville.”

_ What about me? _ Draco doesn’t say. He doesn’t let himself follow that thought. “You don’t love him, okay, but do you like him? Do you think he’s attractive?”

Harry smiles, just a little. “Do I  _ like-like _ him, you mean?” He pauses. “I thought I did. At first, I did, definitely. And he didn’t do anything wrong. I think he’s just not really... “ He shrugs.

“Your type?” Draco asks, with a little smile of his own.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Well,” Draco drawls, “he  _ is _ a Hufflepuff, after all.”

Harry laughs and Draco smiles at the sound. “I was wondering how long it would take you to point that out.”

They fall into silence and watch as a couple shop for a mansion in Provence. Harry doesn’t sit close to Draco, but Draco still feels close to him. 

When Harry goes to leave, he pauses and turns around. “Draco,” he starts. 

Something in his voice makes Draco look over from the television. Harry is looking back at him. The same little spark is in his eyes and Draco thinks it might be fear or, no, more like apprehension, but not quite. He doesn’t remember how to look away.

Harry opens and closes his mouth, then says, “I just want to say thank you,” and he leaves. 

Draco looks at the empty fireplace for a long time afterward. When he goes to bed, his head is full of questions. He ignores the hope that has sparked inside his ribcage and starts to count by threes. Sometime after 2,952 he drifts into sleep.

\- - - - -

The next week, Draco is sitting on his sofa and half-watching a cooking programme when the doorbell rings. He frowns, but answers the door. A young woman is standing there, holding a brown paper bag. “Delivery for Black?”

Draco nods. She hands the bag to him without a word and leaves down the stairwell. Draco closes the door and finds a carton of veg biryani and two steaming samosas in the bag. 

His mobile dings on the couch. The text from Harry says:  _ Can’t come over but it’s my night. Enjoy the samosas. _

Draco texts back:  _ Alright? _

_ Stuff with Callum. Tell you next week. _

Draco purses his lips and doesn’t reply. He stands at the kitchen counter and eats both samosas. The biryani is too spicy but Draco eats it anyway. 

He drinks two beers at the dining room table while going over an article a colleague wrote. He’s probably too harsh in his edits but he doesn’t care. 

Eventually, Draco crawls under his blankets. Rita is already there and she glares at him for disturbing her. Draco does not check his mobile. It takes him doing cubes all the way to 422 to get to sleep.

\- - - - -

When Draco comes home the next day, Harry is on his couch, barefoot, watching a man demolish a wall with a sledgehammer on the telly.

“It’s Thursday,” Draco says, standing in the doorway. He is still wearing scrubs under his pea coat and he is aware he smells like the clinic. He always showers before Harry comes over.

Harry nods. “Yeah. I’ve put a lasagne in the oven, it’ll be ready soon. Will you pick a wine?”

“It’s Thursday,” Draco says again, feeling as though Harry may not have understood him.

Harry looks at him. He hasn’t shaved, Draco notices. He’s wearing his Weird Sisters shirt and soft, gray joggers. Draco knows they’re soft because they’re his. Harry borrowed them once when he spilled tea on his jeans and never gave them back.

Draco sits next to Harry. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, really,” Harry says with a shrug. “I don’t think I get to be sad. I was the one who broke up with him.”

“That’s not nothing, you idiot,” Draco says. “That’s a lot. You can be sad.”

Harry says nothing for a moment and the oven timer beeps. “Lasagne’s ready. Pick a wine.”

Draco studies him. “You’re not getting out of talking about this, but I need to change my clothes before I eat anything. There’s a pinot noir in the cupboard, let’s drink that.”

“Sounds good.” Harry disappears into the kitchen.

Draco ducks into the bathroom to wash his face, then strips off his scrubs and pulls on some denims. He sifts around in his wardrobe before he finds a worn, red t-shirt. It has a gold lion on the front and says POTTER across the back. 

“That’s my shirt,” Harry says when Draco emerges. His mouth is full of lasagne. 

“Those are my joggers,” Draco retorts, then takes a bite from his plate. It’s delicious.

Harry laughs. “Fair enough. The red looks good on you.” 

Draco glances at Harry, feeling his cheeks flush, but doesn’t respond. He sips his wine.

When they’re both finished, Draco takes the dishes to the kitchen. Harry lays across the couch and merely lifts his legs when Draco comes back. Draco sits, sighing, and allows Harry to drape his calves over his lap.

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten. Tell me what happened,” Draco says. 

Harry keeps his eyes on the telly. “There’s not much to say. Callum asked me yesterday if I loved him, and I said no. We talked for a long time, and…” He trails off, biting his bottom lip.

“And? You broke it off?” Draco wishes he knew what to do with his hands. They’re just resting on Harry’s shins. 

“Yeah. He--he said some things, and--”

“What kind of things?” Draco is suddenly defensive. “You didn’t do anything wrong--”

“No, not that kind of thing. He said-- Er, he said I was distant, that I wouldn’t let him in. He asked why I wouldn’t let him get close to me, and I told him…” Harry takes a deep breath. “I told him I have feelings for someone else."

Draco thinks,  _ God, not again, I can’t do it again _ , but he says, “Who is it?”

Now Harry is looking at him. His eyes are dark and that expression is back, and Draco realizes it’s  _ want _ Harry has on his face, it’s  _ longing _ , and he can’t help but suck in a breath. He hasn’t dared to hope, hasn’t bothered to imagine this happening because it never would, but-- 

“It’s you, Draco,” Harry says, quietly. 

Draco doesn’t remember telling his arms to pull Harry up, but suddenly Harry’s face is very close to his. He can feel Harry’s breath on his mouth and his hand is wrapped around Harry’s waist. Harry is looking from Draco’s eyes to his lips and back. Draco waits, just a moment, and tries to memorize this, Harry half in his lap and the way his back feels under Draco’s hand and the darkening blush across Harry’s cheeks. 

But Draco doesn’t get to take in anything else because Harry grabs the back of Draco’s neck and closes the space between them. Their mouths fit together perfectly. Harry’s lips are so full and soft that Draco thinks he might die and he deepens the kiss, pulling Harry closer. His other hand finds Harry’s hair and he slides his fingers through the thick curls. Harry moans. Draco is concerned he might lose consciousness. 

Harry breaks the kiss and he’s breathing hard. He smiles and twists around so he’s straddling Draco’s lap. “Is this okay?” he asks, and Draco nods. He presses one hand to the small of Harry’s back and the other grasps Harry’s hipbone. Harry drapes his arms around Draco’s neck and then they’re kissing again. Harry’s tongue teases at Draco’s and Draco bites Harry’s lip. They’re both making sounds, now, little gasps and quiet moans, especially when Draco sucks a red mark onto Harry’s neck. 

Draco desperately wants to feel all of Harry, to wrap him up and kiss every bit. He sneaks a hand up the side of Harry’s t-shirt and Harry leans back, pulling the shirt off in one motion. “Yours too,” Harry says. “Well, mine,” he amends with a smile.

“I’m not giving it back,” Draco says, lifting the shirt over his head. Harry doesn’t respond because Draco has his mouth over one brown nipple now. Harry’s skin tastes good, he notes, and Harry rolls his hips down into Draco’s. They’re both hard, Draco can feel Harry’s cock through the joggers, and he grabs Harry’s hips with both hands. 

“I want--” Harry starts, pausing to lick the hollow between Draco’s collarbones. “Do you want to stop?”

Draco stills. “Do you?”

Harry rolls his hips again. “No,  _ god _ no. I want to take off more clothes. Can we do that?”

Draco doesn’t bother answering, just tugs at Harry’s waistband. Harry stands and they both pull off their trousers. Harry takes off his pants too and nods at Draco’s. Draco has a difficult time getting them off because he is staring at Harry’s cock and he feels a little dazed. 

He only gets them to his knees before Harry is back on him, and now their cocks are rubbing together and Draco can feel  _ all _ of Harry. He scratches his fingernails lightly down Harry’s back and Harry moans into his mouth, reaching a hand between them and taking both their cocks in his grasp. He moves his fist quickly and they are both leaking precome onto Draco’s belly and Draco knows he won’t last much longer. He doesn’t want this to end yet, he’s not sure it’s even real, but he can’t bring himself to stop. Instead he bites his way down Harry’s neck and Harry’s sounds aren’t quiet anymore, he’s got a fist full of Draco’s hair and he’s saying  _ fuck ohmygod Draco god yes fuckfuckfuck _ and then Harry comes, Draco just a second after.

Later, they are in Draco’s bed. Draco explains how Rita sleeps on the pillow and they must use bundled-up sheets instead. “I’m going to buy you more pillows,” Harry says, “but for tonight I’ll just put my head here.” He lays his head on Draco’s chest and curls against his side. 

Draco wraps his arms around Harry and holds him tight. He feels warm and close and good. He feels like this is the rightest thing that’s maybe ever happened. He can smell Harry’s shampoo and feel his breaths. He doesn’t get a chance to start counting by fours; sleep comes easily.


End file.
